Even though my heels today aren’t squishing with champagne, even though I put on my nicest lipstick and my last actual designer sheath dress, the lady at the bank looks at me in disgust and says, “There’s no way we could approve you for a real estate loan.”
Thanks for sugar coating it, lady. “No way?” I ask.
“You don’t even have a job.” She thinks I’m an idiot for asking.
“What if I did have a job?”
“Wait, do you?” She looks at the form. “This is blank.”
“Well, I like to think that running my charity almost full time each week is a job,” I say. “But I could probably get another one if it would help.”
“One that pays?” She arches one eyebrow. “It says here that you’ve only received a paycheck in your capacity as director of Posh Pets. . .” She glances at the paperwork, including my bank statement and that of the 501c3 and crinkles her nose. “Seven times in the past eighteen months.”
Seven times? That’s better than I thought it would be. “But surely the bank can see that—”
“You received a trust fund with several hundred thousand dollars in it when you turned eighteen, nearly a decade ago,” she says. “But that’s now down to a balance of eleven thousand and four hundred dollars.”
“Eleven thousand, four hundred and twenty-three dollars,” I say.
She frowns. “You’ve spent all of that money in the past eight and a half years, and now you want us to loan you more?”
“Most of that money was spent on the charity—it’s not like I was out taking a vacation or shopping with it.” Or, not with most of it, anyway.
“Is your grandmother likely to leave you more money?” the woman asks.
“She died five years ago and my parents took the rest,” I say. “So, probably not.”
The bank woman flattens her hands against the desk. “I don’t like giving people bad news,” she says. “But unless you earn quite a large sum of money—loans from friends and family are specifically disallowed—and you found some kind of steady employment, there’s no way you’re going to be able to secure a note of. . .how much did you say?”
“Four hundred thousand would be enough to buy a functional shelter, I think.” I can’t help cringing a little. “How much would I need for the down payment?”
“At least a hundred thousand for a non-residence note if you want a loan of three hundred.”
How depressing.
As I’m trudging my way out to my car, I can’t help dragging my feet a bit. Maybe I could find some new donors—to lots of my friends, this isn’t an insane amount of money—but to find them before the sale goes through? Mom intentionally waited to tell me until I had almost no time, I’m sure of it.
If my back wasn’t up against a wall, I’d never even consider this, but. . .I whip out my phone before I can second-guess the impulse and call Easton.
“Hello!” He always sounds so darn chipper.
“Hey,” I say. “Did Mom tell you they’re selling my shelter?”
“Wait, people buy shelters?” he asks. “That surprises me.”
“No,” I say. “They’re selling the building. She didn’t even bother evicting me. She just told me I have two weeks to be out.”
“That’s not very long,” he says. “So what will you do?”
“It’s no time at all,” I say. “Even if I push hard, there’s no way I can find all the animals homes by then, and I’m scrambling around now trying to figure out how to buy it myself.”
“Wait, would they sell it to you instead?”
“I don’t know,” I wail. “I mean, I want them to. I spent years getting it all set up as a shelter, and now I’ll have to find a new place, where I have to either buy it or pay rent, and I’ll be starting all over.”
“Then what’s the plan?”
I love Easton. He gets me. “Okay, so I talked to the bank.”
“About what?”
“A loan,” I say. “It didn’t go well.”
He’s laughing, the jerk.
“But they said if I had a job, and if I had a downpayment, then—”
“And if the sky was orange, and if the wind blew from underground. . .”
“You suck.”
“You know I’d help, but all my money’s tied up in my startup,” he says. “Which is going really well, by the way.”
“Ooh,” I say. “Then maybe—”
“Sadly, I won’t have anything on your timeline,” he says. “I’m flat broke until the IPO. But have you tried to delay the sale? That might buy you some more time.”
Delay the sale. “You’re a genius.”
“So they tell me,” he says. “Who’s the buyer?”
“They didn’t tell me anything.” When did I get so whiny? “Do you think you can find out? Mom won’t even answer the phone when I call.”
“Of course she won’t. She’s hiding for sure. Dad’s business must be on the verge of collapse again or they wouldn’t be selling.”
“But to either buy this place or find a new place, I need to find a job and come up with money for the downpayment. Which is why I’m calling you.”
“How much do you have now?”
“Personally?” I ask. “Or the charity?”
“The fact that you’re asking me that question pains me,” he says. “But either, I guess.” I can hear him cringing.
“Personally, I have more than eleven thousand dollars.”
He groans. “Elizabeth.”
“Look, if you saw these little animals, you’d be in the same boat.”
“Your boat has a cracked hull. What were you thinking, shoveling all your trust money into it?”
“The same thing you were thinking when you dumped yours into your startup.”
“I really doubt that you were thinking you’d wind up rich as Croesus by betting on yourself.”
“Maybe not exactly the same.”
“What about the charity?” he asks. “Surely it has some capital it could contribute.”
“Posh Pets has about three hundred and eighty-one dollars in the account.”
“About three hundred and eighty-one?” He sighs heavily.
“Because I bought some food yesterday that hasn’t gone through yet, and I can’t remember what it cost.”
“Elizabeth.” He doesn’t sound impressed. I shouldn’t have called him, clearly.
“I know.”
“You’re a mess.”
“I’m a delight,” I say. “And I save a lot of animals.”
“Notwithstanding those things, you’re a mess.”
“Can you get me a job?”
“Did I mention the IPO?” he asks. “I could get you a great job in a few months, but not right this minute.” He exhales. “But.”
“But what?”
“I heard Ace is looking for an assistant.”
“He’s horrible.”
“You wanted me to find you a job,” he says. “And you’re qualified for nothing.”
“I can cure bumble foot in a chicken,” I say. “I can treat really irritable dogs, and I can bathe horrible cats. I can do most anything at all with a horse—worked as a vet tech for years. Oh, and I’m great at giving cats their meds.”
“As I said, you’re qualified for nothing.”
“Rude.”
“Just let me call Ace. He might be willing to give you a trial.”
I’m supposed to pin my hopes on being an assistant to Easton’s oldest friend, who’s a notorious playboy? Pass. “I’ll figure something else out.”
“I’ll talk to him anyway, just in case.”
I make vomiting sounds as I hang up the phone.
My phone rings again immediately, and I pick up. “Dude, I’m being serious. I’d rather die than work for Ace.”
“Miss Moorland?”
Whoops. Not my brother calling me back. “Uh huh.”
“We found two credit cards with your name on them in the corner while cleaning a room at the Opus Westminster yesterday, and we have your name on file from a prior reservation.”
I swear under my breath. “I’m so sorry. I had a collision with a drink tray,” I say.
“We’ll have them at the front desk, but you’ll need to bring an ID with you. You can pick them up any time.”
“Thanks.”
I don’t really have time to drive over there, but I kind of need my credit cards. I text Victoria to see whether I can bump my lesson back and train the horses she wanted me to train a little later. She, thankfully, agrees.
I hop in the car and head for the hotel.
When I get there, the front desk does not have my credit cards. “They left a note, though,” the concierge says. “Because of the sensitive nature of credit cards, the manager thought it best if they were kept back in the staff offices.” He points.
And now I’m hiking, in my stupid heels, to the back of the hotel, still trying to recover the credit cards I lost after I was broadsided with Mom’s news and then a tray of champagne.
I finally reach the offices, and the helpful lady at the front desk points me even further back to event services. When I get there, the woman who seems to be in charge is already talking to someone else—someone I know. Someone scary. Someone whose conversation I definitely don’t want to interrupt.
It’s Catherine Richmond, chairman of Richmond Steel.
The richest woman in Scarsdale New York, who also owns this hotel.
“I know it’s sensitive information, but surely I can still get a copy of it.”
“I suppose.” The woman with the British accent frowns. “Do you know the boy? Is that why you need it?”
“Do you dislike your job? Is that why you keep asking me questions instead of doing as I asked?”
The poor employee ducks her head and shoots past the doorway, not even noticing I’m here. I look around for somewhere to hide, but there’s nowhere. Catherine’s sure to see me when she comes barreling out, and I always try to avoid any run-ins with the great Catherine Richmond. Anyone smart avoids them, because she’s terrifying.
Only, instead of leaving, she answers her phone. “Hello?”
And now I’m officially eavesdropping on her.
But I have no idea where else to go. I need my credit cards, and no one’s here to give them to me.
“No, I said I want the document to say that I will acknowledge Emerson Duplessis as Emerson Richmond and as my sole heir if and only if he marries a woman of whom I approve, and if they produce an heir within two years of their marriage. The rest of the stipulations looked fine.”
She grunts.
“I don’t care whether it’s legally enforceable. He won’t know that it’s not. Of course he’s my blood—he looks exactly like Alistair. But sure, a DNA test for the file is fine. They can come to the office to do it. He’ll be working with me every day, but I won’t change my will until the terms have been met. Having an heir who’s a disgrace is worse than having no one at all. Am I clear?”
She snaps the phone shut, and I nearly jump out of my skin. What exactly did I just overhear? Her son had a secret child?
Of course the Brit chooses that very moment to rush back. “Who are you?” she asks.
I want to sink through the floor and die. “I’m Elizabeth Moorland,” I whisper. “I left my credit cards here yesterday at Alistair’s funeral.”
I wait for the jaws of Catherine to snap, breaking me in two, but they never do. I glance sideways and realize she’s on the phone again, and blessedly, she’s not paying me any attention. The woman hands me my cards, and I practically sprint out of the hotel and back to my car. My heart’s still racing when I pull into the barn and change clothes, getting a late start on my riding. I’m so late, in fact, that I miss half my lesson.
It’s a real bummer, but I do training rides on the lower level jumpers and lesson horses for Victoria to pay for Hottie’s board and my own lessons, so I have to do the training before I can focus on myself. Even so, the lesson goes alright, and at the end, we do a mock run of twelve jumps that look really high. One of them’s a triple combination, and one’s a pretty mean looking oxer. I’m actually a little nervous as Hottie sails over it.
In the three years I’ve been working with him since he left the track, he’s always been forward, but we’ve really fixed his mouth and his propulsion. It’s been a joy to fine-tune him lately. I had no idea he’d have so much scope when I rescued him.
“That was the best I’ve ever seen him look,” Victoria says. “I think you should try the Grand Prix next month.”
“You’re kidding,” I say.
She shakes her head slowly. “No, I’m not. You both looked really, really good.”
I’ve been show jumping for a long time, but I’ve never jumped at Grand Prix level—over five feet for the tallest jumps, with as many as sixteen obstacles, and spreads of up to more than six feet. We’ve cleared five-foot obstacles in lessons, obviously, but never in a show, and never when I was racing against time faults. “Do you think you should show him first?” I ask. “Just to make sure he can do it?”
Victoria’s smile is kind. “If you’re nervous, I can. But I think you could do it yourself. He adores you—he tries harder with you than he does with anyone else.”
“Because he knows her,” a woman says from the risers next to the arena. “If he got to know someone else, he’d probably love them, too. He has that kind of face.” She’s probably right, but it’s a little rude to say that. With the backlight, it’s hard to make out the speaker’s face, but when I do, I understand.
Henrietta Watkins is an excellent show jumper. Actually, excellent might not be high enough praise. She’s qualified a dozen times for the World Equestrian Games, and she made it to the Olympics twice. She owned this barn before Victoria bought it. “I’d like to buy him, if you’re keen to sell.”
Of course she would. Henrietta is an excellent rider, but she also has a nearly unlimited bank account, thanks to marrying quite well—three times over. She keeps outliving her spouses, and each time, they leave her a veritable mint. It makes it easier for her to keep qualifying, since she always has the best animals at her disposal.
The fact that she wants my rescue pony is a real compliment.
And. . .it also may be exactly what I need. Sure, I’ve always dreamed of qualifying for the Grand Prix and riding at that level. But I only started riding because Mom and Dad insisted it was the most socially acceptable way to love animals—for rich people. It was something they understood.
It became my dream. . .but it was my second dream.
My first was always to help as many animals as possible find good homes. It pains me to wonder, but how much would Henrietta pay for my darling Hottie? My beautiful sorrel turns his head back to look at me, as if he knows I’m considering betraying him. His ears swivel toward me, and my heart sinks. I’ve been with this guy for so long, through so much. And we’re close now—right at the finish line.
“She couldn’t possibly sell One Hot Shot for less than. . .” Victoria pauses, looking my way. “Seventy-five thousand.” Shoot—Victoria didn’t just aim high. She shot right out of the park with that one. For a rescued OTTB? Has she lost her mind?
“I could do that,” Henrietta says. “Think about it and call me.” She nods once, her eyes still on Hottie, and pivots on her heel, hopping off the bottom of the stand to disappear.
Victoria’s eyes widen. “For a rescue horse,” she mouths.
Seventy-five thousand would go a long way toward getting me the hundred grand I need as a downpayment. But as I tack down, brushing Hottie as he nuzzles me with his nose, my heart sinks. Do I really have to sell my baby to fund my dream? Is that how the world works?
Sadly, that’s how it’s always worked for me.